


Let Them Eat Cake by jaiden_s

by Jaiden_S



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action & Romance, Friendship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaiden_S/pseuds/Jaiden_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn and Elladan travel to Gondor for the Rites of Spring Celebration. After a misunderstanding, Aragorn and Legolas find themselves elbow-deep in flour and eggshells. Who will come out on top?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Them Eat Cake by jaiden_s

**Author's Note:**

> Title - Let Them Eat Cake  
> Author – Jaiden S  
> Email – jadedone23@gmail.com  
> Beta- Phyncke  
> Rating – R  
> Pairing - Aragorn/Legolas  
> Request - "AU, humor fic, any rating; Aragorn/Legolas; Aragorn and Legolas are two rival caterers, trying to one up each other in the attempt to cater the wedding of Faramir to his brother Boromir. Perhaps something evil with cake batter to be included. Feel free to let the squirrel out of the bag and go nuts!!"  
> Summary - Aragorn and Elladan travel to Gondor for the Rites of Spring Celebration. After a misunderstanding, Aragorn and Legolas find themselves elbow-deep in flour and eggshells. Who will come out on top?  
> Warnings - Slash, AU, tasteless jokes about male genetalia  
> Author’s notes – Written for Ardor in August 2008. I tried to keep the spirit of the request, and yet still have it be within the realm of possibility. Instead, it descended into a mish-mash of bad jokes about male genitalia. When the requestor told me to go nuts, I did. Literally.  
> Disclaimer – No profit is made from said story. All characters and settings are property of JRR Tolkien. No posting of story elsewhere without contacting the author first.

Chapter 1 by jaiden_s

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and cast a sidelong glance at Elladan, his travel companion and foster brother. Though he knew the purpose of their trek, the reason for Elrond choosing them to make it remained somewhat murky. It had been a long, cold journey over rugged terrain, steep inclines and lonely trails, but the days steadily grew longer as they neared Gondor. The warmth of the sun pried loose the ice that clung stubbornly to tree limbs. Snow that had once been pristine and white melted to brown slush, slipping and dripping off nearby rocks to puddle in dark trenches along the side of the dirt road. Despite the chilly mornings, the promise of spring hung in the air like the seeds of a dandelion.  
  
“Why exactly were we selected to be Rivendell’s representative to Gondor? Certainly there were more esteemed members of the council who would have been more appropriate,” he asked Elladan. “Why not Glorfindel or Erestor?”  
  
“Because you have at least some passing knowledge of the traditions of men. Erestor would call it unseemly and turn up his nose, and Glorfindel would undoubtedly commit some glaring breech of etiquette, thus ruining relations with Gondor for the next decade,” replied Elladan with a sardonic smile. “Honestly, the Gondorian Rites of Spring sounds ridiculous. An all male enactment of a wedding celebration borders on the insane. Whoever heard of brothers wishing to be joined in matrimony, even if it is merely symbolic? And what in the name of Mandos’ earlobe is a May Pole? It sounds vaguely sexual.”  
  
“Sexual?”  
  
“Yes, indeed. And in this case, there should be two poles.”  
  
Aragorn grinned. “The May Pole is an ancient tradition, wherein the loveliest boys and girls of the village dance around a ribbon covered pole in a celebration of life and fertility. Prior to the dance, the May Court is presented. Traditionally, the wedding enactment is between a male and a female. Perhaps young Faramir was so dismayed that his brother would be symbolically wed to a fair maiden, that his father allowed him to be the stand-in bride. It seems their affection for one another runs quite deep.”  
  
“So does my affection for Elrohir, but I have no desire to erect a pole on his behalf,” Elladan remarked dryly. “My father’s eyebrows would tie themselves in a knot atop his forehead if anyone were to so much as suggest it.”  
  
A chuckle of acknowledgement was all Aragorn offered in response, for he, too, found that particular part of the celebration to be quite strange. Denethor had sent the Rites of Spring invitations far and wide, even to the distant reaches of Elvendom, though Aragorn suspected those were sent merely as a token courtesy. Men and Elves rarely mingled anymore. Most Elves were content to watch the rise of Man from afar, choosing quiet contemplation rather than active participation. In fact, it was only the encroaching darkness from Mordor that spurred Elrond to respond to the invitation.  
  
“Take Elladan and make the journey to Gondor,” Elrond had said to Aragorn upon receiving the invitation. “Keep a watchful eye and a keen ear to all that goes on. Report back to me your observations immediately upon your return.”  
  
“But what will I take as a gift?” Aragorn had asked. He felt uneasy about attending the ceremonial bonding of two young men he had not met without an appropriate gift.  
  
Elrond pressed a parchment into his hand. “This is a recipe for hummingbird cake, the finest example of Elvish cuisine in all of Imladris. Gather the dry ingredients, and bundle them for the trip. The morning before the celebration, prepare the cake and present it to the couple at the May Day reception that afternoon.”  
  
“A cake?” Aragorn looked perplexed. “Do you think a mere cake will suffice?”  
  
Elrond smiled and placed his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “Estel, you have never tasted a cake so delicious. It is as light as the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, as sweet as honey dripped from the comb and as moist as the lips of a nubile virgin. One taste of this cake and Denethor will be ready to wed you himself.”  
  
The Rites of Spring celebration involved a thinly veiled replica of male genitalia, and the cake was supposedly orgasm on a plate. Aragorn swallowed a chuckle and wondered to himself if the May Day entertainment would involve swordplay, jousting and nude wrestling. At this point, he was prepared for anything, even a possible marriage proposal from Denethor himself.  
  
And so, within the week, Aragorn found himself and the cake mix strapped to the back of a gelding, making his way to the land of Gondor alongside Elladan, who seemed highly amused by the whole situation.  
  
They rode on for some time in comfortable silence. Just as the sun began to sink toward the horizon, the riders topped a grassy knoll and surveyed the rolling hills ahead of them. To the south arose the White City itself – Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor and the city of the kings. Aragorn felt a sudden stirring of pride. “Men truly are capable of wonders,” he marveled, awestruck by the gleaming spires of the magnificent city.  
  
“Aye, and they are also capable of dancing like lunatics around a gigantic phallic symbol,” quipped Elladan. “Why, I can just imagine it standing at rigid attention, awaiting the stroking and praise of loving admirers. I wonder if they’ve painted it a garish shade of purple or opted for a more subtle flesh tone. Will the ribbons flowing from the top be white? Will the townspeople be swollen with pride? Engorged with joy?”  
  
Aragorn groaned and cut his eyes over to Elladan, who wore a grin of smug satisfaction. “Crudeness does not become you.”  
  
“Perhaps not, but the thought of a warm bed and a hot meal certainly gives me rise! Come! I want to see the object of honor with my own two eyes,” Elladan yelled. With an energetic whoop, he urged his tired horse to a gallop and raced down the hillside toward the towering gates of the city.  
  
“I am right behind you,” cried Aragorn, as he gave chase and followed his brother down into the city itself.  
  
Evening found the pair safely within the walls of Minas Tirith, ales in hand and backs to an open hearth at the city’s busiest inn. The bustling sitting room was filled to bursting with members of the wedding party scurrying about like cackling hens in search of corn. Aragorn leaned back against the hearth mantle, brushed a bit of dust from his riding cloak and surveyed the scene. He drifted lazily in a beer-hazed blur of muted colors and muffled sounds, which after such a long journey suited him just fine.  
  
Somewhere off to the right arose a clamor. Voices grew louder and louder until a definitive crash silenced the teeming din of guests. Aragorn sighed and placed his ale on a nearby table. Suddenly, his hazy surroundings shifted into clear focus.  
  
A tall, willowy Elf with pale hair and fair skin hunched over a broken cask of flour. Though she was dressed in a masculine riding outfit, her slender form was elegant and Aragorn allowed himself a moment to appreciate her shapely figure from behind. How long had it been since he had found himself interested in a member of the fairer sex? He could not remember. Aragorn approached her with a smile and placed a hand on her stooped shoulder. “Allow me to help you, my lady. We will have this mess cleaned up in no time.”  
  
The fist came out of nowhere and hit Aragorn squarely in the jaw, knocking him back onto his rear end. What he had thought to be a fair Elven lady suddenly transformed into a bitter, angry young lad. “My LADY?! Do I look female to you? Take your hands off of me, you pervert!!” The enraged Elf loomed over him, glaring down with barely contained fury.  
  
Aragorn’s eyes widened in utter shock as he realized the depth of his mistake. “Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to offend, but from behind you did indeed look-”  
  
The blond Elf leaned down, snatched a handful of Aragorn’s shirt and yanked him up so forcefully that Aragorn yelped in surprise. “Finish that statement and it will be the last one you ever make,” hissed the Elf through gritted teeth.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Aragorn said weakly. The Elf released his grip and let him tumble backward onto his bottom once more.  
  
“Forget it,” griped the Elf. “I have more important things to worry about, like how to make this hummingbird cake without the dry ingredients.”  
  
Aragorn abruptly stopped rubbing his aching jaw and sat up. “Hummingbird cake? You can’t be making hummingbird cake. I’m making hummingbird cake. It’s a Rivendell tradition!. Elrond gave me the recipe himself!”  
  
“Then he must have stolen it from my father, because it is a Mirkwood specialty!” yelled the Elf with renewed venom.  
  
By this time, Aragorn was on his feet. “Elrond is not a thief! He would never steal anything!”  
  
“He has been called far worse than a thief! And you are the one who started the insulting!” The Elf took a step forward and jabbed his finger into Aragorn’s chest.  
  
Aragorn’s eyes flashed with anger, but before he could make a move, Elladan stepped between them and grabbed each one by the bicep.  
  
“Everyone take a deep breath,” Elladan said eyeing each of them in turn. “Aragorn, I see you have met the dashing Prince Legolas of the Greenwood. Legolas, you’re as charming as ever.”  
  
Legolas tried to shrug off Elladan’s grip. “He called me a female!”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been mistaken for a girl,” Elladan replied with a grin. “For years, Lindir longed to bury his nose in your bosom... until he learned that you did not have one.”  
  
Legolas wrenched his arm free and thundered off in a glorious storm of attitude and hair.  
  
“He said that your father stole the hummingbird cake recipe,” Aragorn complained as he watched Legolas storm away.  
  
Elladan shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. It’s not about who had the recipe first, it’s about who bakes the best cake.” He sniffed the air with dramatic flair and gave Aragorn a devilish grin. “I smell a competition! What do you say? Are you up to the challenge of out-baking the Petulant Princeling?”  
  
Aragorn’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “I cannot imagine an Elf who would rather throw punches than engage in a logical discourse would have baking skills any better than mine. Surely, if I follow the recipe exactly, I can bake a decent cake.”  
  
“That’s the spirit,” said Elladan. He dusted off Aragorn’s shirt and gave his foster brother a pat on the shoulder. “By the time we are finished, we’ll have the praise of the May Day court, the love of the dear brothers and the apology from the lovely Lady Legolas.”  
  
Aragorn gave Elladan a sheepish look. “I really did think he was a female. It was an honest mistake. From behind, he looked so…so…pretty,” he admitted.  
  
“I couldn’t agree more. He’s lovely, and he’s reminded of it every single day of his life. If your hair was constantly compared to finely spun gold and your eyes to the depths of the ocean blue, wouldn’t your ego be the size of the Misty Mountains? Add to that a distinct flair for the dramatic and the temperament of a rabid badger and you have our dear Princeling. Long may he snarl,” Elladan quipped. “Don’t let his feminine looks fool you. Though he’s mistaken for a female on occasion, he’s definitely male. And he bites.”  
  
“His violent reaction, then, was a defense mechanism,” Aragorn surmised. “Could it be that a nicer Elf lies beneath his gruff demeanor?”  
  
“Oh, no. He’s an ass,” replied Elladan. “I wouldn’t touch him with someone else’s May Pole.”  
  
“So noted, brother,” Aragorn said, reaching to rub his sore jaw once more. “Let’s go back to the room. I want to be up early tomorrow to start baking.”  
  
~*~  
  
Aragorn was up with the sun the next morning. Elladan, however, was not. When Aragorn yanked at the covers, he groaned and rolled over. “I slept as well as a condemned man on executioner’s row,” Elladan griped as he tried to pull the pillow over his head. “I kept dreaming of sausages.”  
  
“Elladan, be serious for once.”  
  
“I am serious! I dreamt of little dancing sausages!” Elladan flung back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. “Somehow, it seems fitting.”  
  
With a roll of his eyes, Aragorn plucked Elladan’s pants from his pack and flung them in his general direction. “Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen in ten minutes. We don’t have time to waste today, not if we want the cake to be ready before the celebration begins.”  
  
By the time Elladan had dressed and found the kitchen, Aragorn was elbow deep in eggshells and flour. He sauntered over to the counter to give the recipe a quick read. “I’m assuming I need to locate the rest of the necessary ingredients. Bananas, pecans and…what is a pineapple?”  
  
Aragorn nodded his head toward the far end of the counter. “It’s that prickly thing on the end. Luckily, Denethor had a few brought up from the coast.”  
  
“Ah.” Elladan wrinkled his nose and turned back to the recipe. “It says here that you need whipped cream. Why don’t I visit the dairy barn and find some cream?”  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Elladan darted back out of the kitchen and shoved past a flustered Legolas whose arms were full of ingredients.  
  
“Take care! You could knock someone over,” cried Legolas after the retreating Elf.  
  
“You would know a lot about knocking someone over,” said Aragorn as he cracked an egg into his mixing bowl.  
  
Legolas glanced over his shoulder and eyed Aragorn warily. “I did not know that you would be here.”  
  
“My being here should not affect your ability to bake a cake, unless, of course, you intend to punch me while mixing the batter.”  
  
“Just stay out of my way,” sniffed Legolas, who set his bag down as far from Aragorn as he possibly could. With quiet efficiency, he unpacked the necessary ingredients for his cake and lined them up neatly on the counter in front of him.  
  
Aragorn grinned to himself and added a dash of salt to his batter. After disposing of the eggshells that had piled at his workstation, he stole a glance at Legolas, who looked completely lost. He stood in confused silence, gnawing nervously at the end of his thumbnail like an overgrown Elfling. In that moment, Aragorn’s anger thawed just a bit.  
  
“Have you made this cake before? It is my first time to bake anything at all,” offered Aragorn with a slight smile.  
  
Legolas flung Aragorn an annoyed look. “Any idiot can bake a cake.” He snatched a sack of flour, as if to emphasize his point.  
  
“I would not go that far. Baking is harder than it looks.” Aragorn’s batter was nearly done. He jabbed a finger in the gooey mixture and held it up for inspection. “And it’s quite messy.”  
  
Legolas responded by dumping the entire sack of flour into a large bowl. A large white cloud exploded upward like a detonated bomb and covered both him and the counter in front of him with a fine dusting of flour. For a long, shocked moment, he stood as still as a marble statue. The silence was short-lived.  
  
Aragorn tried very hard not to laugh. Very, very hard. He bit his lip. He held his breath. He tried to recall his last bout with the stomach flu. Nothing worked. One lone giggle bubbled up from deep in his chest and that was all it took. In the blink of an eye, he was doubled over in silent laughter.  
  
Legolas raked the back of his hand over his brow, leaving a long, sweaty smear across his white forehead. “I’m happy you find this so amusing.”  
  
Before Aragorn could find enough composure to reply, Elladan burst back into the kitchen carrying two large buckets. One contained cream, the other, a load of unidentifiable animal parts.  
  
“You will never guess what I have. It’s brilliant,” he proclaimed as he set both buckets on the counter.  
  
Aragorn wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and peered over the edge of the closest pail. “What are those? Sausages?”  
  
“Nope! Even better!”  
  
The oblong masses lay in a wet, glistening heap in the bottom of the bucket. Aragorn sniffed at them and immediately took a step back. “Elladan. You cannot be serious. Those look like-”  
  
“Testicles!” cried Elladan with unfettered glee. “What better to serve at an all male wedding than fried bulls’ balls! The stablehand said they taste like chicken.”  
  
“Have you completely lost your mind? I am not serving those to Denethor. Find somewhere to put those and help me with the whipped cream.”  
  
Elladan deflated like a day-old balloon. “Can’t we at least fry a few up and see how they go over? I had to fight the cat for these.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Fine, but you’ve just lost your chance to be the most memorable guest at the celebration.”  
  
Aragorn grinned and handed him a whisk. “I’ll take my chances. Now, make yourself useful and stop obsessing over male genitalia. It’s unhealthy.”  
  
As Elladan reluctantly began whipping the cream, Aragorn stole yet another glance at Legolas. Despite the chaos of his workstation, Legolas had made little progress with his cake. Aragorn took a step closer.  
  
“Would you like some help? My cake is nearly ready for the oven.”  
  
“No. I don’t need any help,” Legolas bitterly replied. “I’m perfectly capable of baking my own cake.”  
  
Aragorn smiled. “I know you don’t need the help, but I thought you might like it. Sharing a chore can make it more pleasant.”  
  
Legolas’ expression softened a little, and he said, “Again, no. I prefer to do this myself.”  
  
“I understand, but if you change your mind, just let me know.”  
  
After another few turns of the wooden spoon, Aragorn’s cake batter was ready. He poured the thick mixture into a pair of greased cake pans and gently placed them in the heated oven.  
  
Elladan put down his whisk and stared into the mixing bowl. “Exactly how stiff does the whipped cream need to be?” he asked. “It looks fairly erect to me.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s fine,” chuckled Aragorn. “All that is left is mixing the icing and chopping the nuts. Which would you prefer?”  
  
“Since you would not let me keep my other set of nuts, I suppose I’ll make do with these.” Elladan picked up the sack of pecans and gave it a playful grope.  
  
Legolas snickered and tried to hide it with a cough.  
  
“A chuckle from the Prince of Pout? I didn’t think it was possible,” said Elladan as he examined a particularly large nut.  
  
“Bite me,” said Legolas.  
  
Elladan grinned wickedly. “Is that an offer?”  
  
“You wish.” Legolas snorted and cracked an egg on the side of his mixing bowl. Though some of the egg made it inside the bowl, along with a few stray bits of eggshell, the rest dripped onto the counter.  
  
“There are lots of things I wish for, but nibbling on you is not one of them,” said Elladan. He grabbed his bucket of testicles and said, “Aragorn, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my assorted nuts to another location.”  
  
As soon as Elladan left the kitchen, Aragorn exhaled in relief. “I apologize if what he said offended you,” he began. “He means well, but sometimes he can be a bit much.”  
  
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Legolas stated, matter-of-fact. “Unfortunately, it comes with the territory. I’m never quite what anyone expects me to be.”  
  
Aragorn grinned sheepishly. “I must concur, for you were not at all what I expected.”  
  
At that, Legolas grinned, too. “I know. You were expecting a female.”  
  
“True,” admitted Aragorn, “but I learned of my error almost immediately.”  
  
Legolas reached up and gripped Aragorn’s chin, turning his face to the side. A large purplish bruise had begun to blossom on the left side of his jaw. Aragorn winced when Legolas’ thumb brushed over it.  
  
“You are not what I expected either,” Legolas said before he turned back to his cake batter. “You’ve been nothing but gracious to me, and I’ve been a perfect jerk.”  
  
“I can understand why you would be defensive. If someone called me a woman, I might react in a similar manner.”  
  
Legolas gave him a thoughtful look. “No, I don’t think you would,” he decided. “You strike me as a man who prefers negotiation to violence. Sometimes I wish I were not so hot-headed and quick to swing a fist. For what it’s worth, I’d like to offer an apology for last night. I’m sorry I hit you.”  
  
The last little piece of residual anger melted away, and Aragorn gave Legolas’ shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Apology accepted.” He stepped in closer to peek into Legolas’ mixing bowl. “You do know that eggshells are not part of the recipe,” he added with mock sincerity.  
  
“Really? I had no idea.” Legolas caught a piece of eggshell on the tip of his forefinger and flicked it onto Aragorn’s tunic. “Much better.”  
  
At first, Aragorn did not know how to react, but the twinkle in Legolas’ eye made him grin with impish delight. He dipped his finger into the bowl, caught a large piece of eggshell in a dollop of batter and smeared it onto Legolas’ nose. “That was a big one,” he said “And the batter does look to be the right consistency.”  
  
“Good to know,” Legolas remarked. He stuck his entire hand down in the batter and flung a scoop of it at Aragorn’s head. Half of it hit the side of his face. The other half landed on his shoulder with a wet splat.  
  
During the ensuing battle, flour and batter projectiles flew with furious abandon until the bowl sat empty on the counter. Aragorn made a grab for a half-full sack of fruit and scrambled round the edge of the counter.  
  
Legolas ducked behind the other side of the counter, desperate for something else to launch at Aragorn. A miraculously unbroken egg lay waiting for him and he quickly scooped it up.  
  
“I have a peach and I’m not afraid to use it,” taunted Aragorn.  
  
“Peaches are for wimps,” yelled Legolas. He popped up from behind the counter and hit the crouching Aragorn right between the eyes with the egg.  
  
Quick as a fox, Aragorn darted around the end of the counter and launched himself at the unsuspecting Elf, who hit the floor with a cry of surprise.  
  
Aragorn pinned Legolas to the ground and leaned over him. The egg on his face dribbled off the edge of his chin and dripped onto Legolas’ flour-stained cheek. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” teased Aragorn.  
  
“Who says I can’t finish it? I can finish anything.”  
  
"Is that a threat or a promise?"  
"A promise."  
  
In the twinkle of an eye, Legolas had reversed their positions. Now Aragorn lay on the cold tiles, trapped under a determined Elf who sat squarely atop his abdomen. Much to his surprise, he found he quite liked it. Legolas certainly was attractive, and after their initial conflict, he had proven himself to be rather interesting. So, as Aragorn looked up at his beguiling captor, he decided he did indeed want Legolas to finish it. Whatever it may be. Actually, he had a few ideas on what it could be. By way of suggestion, he ran one hand up the length of Legolas’ muscled thigh. If that wasn’t a suggestion, then he didn’t know what one was.  
  
Legolas looked a little uncertain, but the higher Aragorn’s hand traveled, the less uncertain the Elf became. By the time the hand snaked its way under the hem of his tunic, Legolas knew exactly what Aragorn had in mind.  
  
“Then finish it,” breathed Aragorn as his fingertips finally brushed over bare skin.  
  
The kiss that followed was not gentle, nor had Aragorn expected it to be. Their lips crashed together with the same violent force he had felt during their initial encounter, though he much preferred this entanglement to the former one. Fingers, sticky with batter and egg, slid through Aragorn’s hair, holding him in place as their warm mouths melted together. By the time the kiss broke, they were both breathless and panting.  
  
A trumpet sounded in the distance, signaling the entrance of the May Court into the castle courtyard. Legolas shifted off of Aragorn, and struggled to his feet. “Ai! Where has the morning gone!” Legolas cried. “If I don’t hurry, I won’t be able to finish my cake in time for the ceremony!”  
  
Aragorn rushed to the window and peered out at the growing parade of colorful dancers and merry townspeople. “Never mind about the cake. There’s no time for that! I’ll help you think of another gift for the Princes of Gondor.”  
  
Legolas shook his head. “No, I want to stay here and finish my cake. You go ahead and prepare for the Rites of Spring.”  
  
Aragorn flew to the oven and retrieved his own cake, which had turned a lovely shade of golden brown. By the time he had washed and changed into his formal robes, it would be ready for the icing and whipped cream. He placed it on cooling rack and turned back to Legolas, who was frantically searching for unbroken eggs.  
  
“Are you absolutely certain that you don’t need any help? I don’t mind staying behind.”  
  
“Go now, before I change my mind.”  
  
Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas’ shoulder and smiled. “I will look for you later, then. Come and find me.”  
  
Legolas gave him a quick nod but said nothing, which gave Aragorn something to fret about as he washed up back in his rooms. By the time he changed and dashed back down to the kitchen to ice his cake, Legolas was gone.  
  
~*~  
  
Given the chaos of the morning, Aragorn felt proud of himself for being only ten minutes late to the ceremony. Other than the presentation of Middle Earth dignitaries and an odd performance involving a trained monkey, he had missed very little. There was an open seat next to Elladan on the back row of chairs, and he slid into it as silently as he could.  
  
“You look like a wet rat,” noted Elladan while eyeing Aragorn’s damp hair. He leaned over and gave his foster sibling an inquisitive sniff. “Thankfully, you don’t smell like one.”  
  
Aragorn shot Elladan a warning glance before turning his attention to the altar in the center of the courtyard. Atop a low set of risers stood the sons of Denethor, Boromir and Faramir, each dressed in robes of white and fidgeting as only young men could fidget. They were younger than Aragorn had expected. Faramir looked to be no older than sixteen, still clinging to the lankiness of youth and the awkwardness that comes with it. The young man fingered a lock of his hair nervously as the purple robed priest at the foot of the risers read aloud from a ritual book. Boromir, however, had the quiet confidence of a young man born to lead, and he cast a striking figure in his formal robes. The moment their hands were joined in symbolic marriage, Faramir’s entire demeanor changed. He gave his brother a look of complete adoration and visibly relaxed. Aragorn found himself smiling at the sweetness of the two.  
  
The ceremony itself was short, tasteful and mercifully brief. After a quick whisper of a kiss to seal their ceremonial bond, the brothers took their seats on the edge of the stage and awaited the one event that most guests had been discussing for days: the May Pole.  
  
“It’s much smaller than I expected,” Aragorn remarked with a hint of disappointment.  
  
“Size isn’t important. What matters is the technique of the dancers,” Elladan replied.  
  
Before Elladan could wade deeper into the murky waters of innuendo, the music began and the dancers skipped and pranced their way to the stage. If the May Pole was disappointing, then the dancers made up for it with sheer enthusiasm. Aragorn marveled at the fluid way they glided in and out of the circle, streaming colorful ribbons as they moved. When the dance concluded, the May Pole was entwined in brightly colored satin, a shrine to harmony, rebirth and the dawning of Spring itself. Denethor then dismissed the guests to the reception party.  
  
The reception was nothing short of spectacular. Denethor spared no expense, draping the walls of the grand hall in garlands of flowers and rich tapestries of brilliant colors. It was a time of renewing old acquaintances, rebuilding alliances and restoring good faith among and between kingdoms. Aragorn and Elladan smiled and chatted their way to the pastry table, situated at the front of the grand hall. There in the center of the long banquet sat two nearly identical hummingbird cakes. A card in front of the one on the right read, “May the warmth of Spring remain in your hearts always. Regards, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.”  
  
“Legolas did a fine job, didn’t he? I can scarcely tell the two cakes apart,” said Aragorn, bending down for a closer look.  
  
“The one without eggshells is yours,” replied Elladan with a grin. “I must say, though, that the competition is effectively ruined since you worked on both cakes. How am I to judge who is the better baker?”  
  
“Speaking of Legolas, I wonder where he is. He said he would find me before the day was over.”  
  
Elladan’s right eyebrow raised in a skeptical arch. “Let me make sure I fully understand the situation. You are actively searching for an Elf who cold-cocked you in the inn last night?”  
  
A slight blush colored Aragorn’s cheeks and he gave Elladan a sheepish grin. “Uh huh.”  
  
Elladan exhaled loudly. “I’m guessing you cooked up something other than cakes in that kitchen. It’s your decision who to pursue, but tread carefully with Legolas. His bad temperament is legendary.”  
  
“I appreciate your concern,” Aragorn replied, “but I want to see him. I want to get to know him. There’s more there than just a pretty face and a spectacular right hook.”  
  
An Elf with a plate full of food accidentally bumped into Elladan, who immediately perked up. “Say, what is that on your plate?”  
  
The Elf grinned and held up a fried nugget. “I’m not quite sure, but it tastes like chicken.”  
  
Aragorn groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ell…you didn’t…”  
  
“Oh, but I did. While you were playing hide the sausage with Legolas, I struck a deal with the cook to fry up the testicles.”  
  
The other Elf turned a lovely shade of green and thrust his plate at Elladan. “I think I’m going to be ill.” Off he dashed, leaving Elladan and Aragorn to stare after him.  
  
“I hope you are happy. If you make all of the guests sick, Elrond will never forgive you.”  
  
Elladan grinned and nibbled on the remains of a fried nugget. “Relax. Nobody will know what they are. Fried parts are fried parts. Even saddle straps taste good if they are battered and fried. Ooh, they do taste like chicken!”  
  
Aragorn ignored him and proceeded to cut a slice of the hummingbird cake. Just as Elrond had promised, it tasted divine and was indeed fit for the rulers of Gondor. The cake was light and sweet, spongy and moist, covered in a heavy cream cheese icing and topped with a dollop of whipped cream. It was nothing short of bliss on a plate.  
  
As he ate, he scanned the room for an Elf with long blond hair. His hopes were raised briefly by the silver braids of a Silvan Elf, only to be dashed when said Elf was not Legolas. Where was Legolas? Aragorn set his empty plate on the edge of the table. “I’m going for a walk,” he told Elladan. “Don’t wait for me.”  
  
~*~  
  
Gondor was a large city. Legolas could be anywhere. After a moment of consideration, Aragorn decided that his best course of action would be to start at the site of their original encounter and work his way out from there. And since he was already returning to the inn, he may as well change into more suitable Elf-hunting attire. He walked quickly through the raucous streets, teeming with rowdy townspeople red-faced from too much wine and too little modesty, and hurriedly made his way up the stairs to his second floor room.  
  
The door stood ajar, and Aragorn instinctually unsheathed a small dagger from his right boot. With quiet stealth, he pushed the door open and crept slowly into the darkened room.  
  
“You can drop the weapon. It’s only me,” said Legolas from his seat next to the window. He was the very picture of Elven royalty as he sat in the dark, his long legs crossed neatly at the ankle, and his chin resting on his hand in thoughtful recline. Even in the dim light, Aragorn could see the finery of his formal robes and the soft glow of a royal circlet that was entwined in Legolas’ platinum braids. What had caused Legolas to leave the reception...or had he even gone? He did not seem like an Elf who would shirk his responsibilities, and clearly he had dressed for the occasion.  
  
Perplexed and concerned, Aragorn closed the door and set the knife on the bedside table. “I expected you at the reception,” he said. “I’m sure Denethor did, too.”  
  
“I know, and I did make a brief appearance to offer my greetings on behalf of Mirkwood, but then…” Legolas’ voice trailed off as he turned to look out the window at the setting sun.  
  
“…But then, what? Did something happen to cause you to leave?” Aragorn took the chair opposite Legolas and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I hope that I am not the cause of your brief stay at the reception.”  
  
“No…Yes…I don’t know.”  
  
“Whatever the reason, I am glad you are here,” stated Aragorn honestly. “I intended to search for you this evening if I had not found you here waiting for me.”  
  
Legolas’ turned to stare at him with such surprising intensity that Aragorn found it hard not to look away. The gaze sliced through him, peeling away layers of uncertainty to lay bare the true intent of Aragorn’s heart: he wanted the Elf. Badly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
“I want to get to know you,” Aragorn said, “all of you.”  
  
Legolas bristled. “I’m not a maiden to be wooed.”  
  
“I am well aware of that.”  
  
“And despite what happened this morning, I do not trust easily.”  
  
“Nor would I expect you to. Trust is to be earned.”  
  
Legolas rose from his seat and quickly crossed the wooden floor to stand in front of Aragorn’s chair. Hands on his hips, he stared down at Aragorn and demanded an answer. “What do you want from me?”  
  
Aragorn reached out and took one of Legolas’ hands in his own. The Elven fingers were long and elegant, yet callused from years of holding a bow, a seductive blend of strength and beauty. Tentatively, Aragorn traced the lines in Legolas’ hand with his fingertips and said, “I want whatever you will give me, be it friendship or something else entirely.”  
  
“What do I get in return?”  
  
“You get the devotion of a ragged man, who has no tact and even less wit. I know it is not much to offer, but it is all I have to give.”  
  
Legolas’ fingers closed around Aragorn’s hand and he yanked hard, pulling the man to his feet. In an instant, he had a fistful of Aragorn’s robes and pulled him closer still. “Offer accepted,” he said with a devious grin. "And I believe we have some unfinished business."  
  
Aragorn was not quite sure how to react. Though Legolas gave the answer for which he had hoped, the reality of the situation proved very different from his conjured fantasy of a pretty Elf. Legolas was indeed male, a point that was driven home when Aragorn found himself pinned heavily against the bedroom wall by the muscular archer's taut body. Any thoughts of caressing satin skin or threading locks of flaxen silk through his fingertips fled hand-in-hand with Aragorn's preconceived notions of feminine Wood Elves. This was no coy seduction by an innocent youth; this was a full-frontal assault by a trained veteran.  
  
Legolas gripped Aragorn's jaw and turned his head to the side. "Your bruise looks worse," he remarked before pressing his lips to the tender skin.  
  
Aragorn inhaled sharply. "Thank you for noticing, and it feels worse, too."  
  
"Mmm. Perhaps I can offer a remedy." Legolas leaned into Aragorn, pressing his lithe body fully against the man as if to emphasize the intended what exactly he intended to finish, and kissed a warm trail over the man's stubbled jawline. "Or, if not a remedy, at least a pleasurable diversion."  
  
"Be careful. Do not travel down this road unless you are certain..." gasped Aragorn, praying that Legolas was indeed certain. The hand that snaked over one hip to cup his backside seemed absolutely convinced.  
  
"I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt." Legolas' thigh eased between Aragorn's legs and rocked slowly against the ever-growing bulge in his trousers.  
  
Aragorn's knees nearly buckled. "Then, remind me where we left off," he panted.  
  
The joining of their lips was no less forceful than their first crushing embrace, urgency and desire mingling in a heady mixture of warm mouths and kneading hands. Aragorn's back ached from the hard wood of the wall behind him, but Legolas' relentless assault on his mind and body continued, and he gave himself over to it with little more than a groan, backache be damned. He surrendered to the honeyed lips that teased his own, to the rush of soft breath that whispered his name, to the wanton fingertips that danced along the waistband of his trousers.  
  
At that very moment, the doorknob turned and the door rattled with a frustrated ca-thunk. "Aragorn? I forgot my key! Let me in, will you?" Elladan called as he gave the door another urgent shake. "I want to wash up before dinner!"  
  
"Wait just a minute!" Aragorn glanced desperately at the door, then back at his lovely tormentor. "I'm wrapped up in something at the moment."  
  
Legolas made no move to release him, instead choosing to slide his hand inside Aragorn's trousers to continue what he had begun. "We're finishing this," he whispered before playfully nipping at Aragorn's ear with his teeth. "Right here, right now. After all, I am an Elf who lives up to his promises."  
  
"You're dangerous," Aragorn murmured. "He could kick in the door and discover us."  
  
"Let him. Maybe he can learn something new." Legolas' hand brushed over bare skin, causing Aragorn to groan.  
  
Again, Elladan tugged and pounded at the locked door. "Hurry up! A slug moves faster than you do!"  
  
Aragorn's mind raced. He could hardly focus with Elladan pounding on the door and Legolas rubbing against his inner thigh. "I don't feel well," he called in what he hoped was a believably distressed tone. Legolas' knowing chuckle shattered that illusion.  
  
The pounding ceased, and for one glorious moment, Aragorn imagined that Elladan had simply walked away without further comment. Unfortunately, that illusion shattered, too.  
  
"Stop doing whatever it is you are doing with Legolas and unlock the damned door!"  
  
He wanted to respond, truly he did, but Aragorn knew that anything he uttered would sound more like the grunt of a rutting stag than a man capable of a coherent conversation. Especially now that Legolas him fully in hand.  
  
"Fine. Stay in there and let him polish your maypole, but don't forget that he bites," Elladan said with a huff before stomping off to the public washroom.  
  
"He's right, you know," teased Legolas as he scraped his teeth lightly over the curve of Aragorn's neck. "I do bite."  
  
Aragorn felt woozy. Legolas' unexpectedly vigorous assault left him reeling. Though he had willingly and eagerly offered himself to Legolas, he had not expected such an enthusiastic response. The speed with which it was all happening made his head spin. In fact, the only thing keeping him focused was the purposeful ministrations of Elven fingers that coaxed him to full attention. A particularly well-aimed stroke caused Aragorn to inhale sharply and buck hard into Legolas' hand. The Elf's skills extended far beyond the archery range.  
  
Suddenly, Legolas stopped nibbling Aragorn's ear and took a step back. "I nearly forgot," he said as he scampered to the sidetable. "I brought something with me from the reception...just in case."  
  
Frustrated, Aragorn leaned against the wall and adjusted his trousers. He ached with need, but if Legolas could handle stopping mid-assault, so could he. "Do you not think this could wait until later?"  
  
Legolas shook his head and unwrapped a napkin-covered plate sitting on a side table. "It could, but that would defeat the purpose. Hummingbird cake is supposed to be an aphrodisiac."  
  
Aragorn glanced down at his trousers. "Arousal does not seem to be a problem," he noted.  
  
"My father says that hummingbird cake is orgasm on a plate." Legolas swiped at a clump of icing and made a show of licking it off of his finger.  
  
"Elrond said something very similar, now that you mention it." Aragorn's eyes locked onto Legolas' tongue, which lapped gently at the last bits of icing that clung to his fingers. He swallowed hard. "But if my desire for you grows any more intense than it already is, I may burst into flame."  
  
Legolas' eyebrow arched upward. "So you would rather eat me than eat the cake?"  
  
Wordlessly, Aragorn stalked over to where Legolas, grabbed him by the nape of the neck and kissed him with such passionate intensity that Legolas forgot all about the cake. The napkin tumbled to the floor, cake with it. After a few breathless moments, their lips parted.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I think we both may be devoured before the night is over."  
  
Aragorn grinned. "That sounds appetizing."  
  
"And I think there are enough ingredients for another cake." Legolas tugged Aragorn's hand and urged him toward the bed.  
  
"Tomorrow," said Aragorn with a grunt. He pushed the Elf backwards, sending him sprawling on the cotton bedspread. "Right now, I intend to eat you alive."  
  
Quick as a flash, Legolas yanked Aragorn's hand, pulled him down on the bed and rolled them both over, pinning the man to the mattress. "Don't start something you can't finish," he teased. He rolled his hips, grinding himself against Aragorn's crotch.  
  
Aragorn's eyes gleamed like those of a hungry tiger as he threaded his fingers through Legolas' tousled hair. "We will finish it together."  
  
The feral intensity of their lovemaking left the room in chaos. Clothes lay scattered on the floor. Bedlinens tangled in a wad at the foot of the bed. Somehow the cord from the windowshade had been knotted to the headboard. Aragorn vaguely remembered being teased with a leather belt, but he couldn’t be certain. It was too much effort to force himself to remember the details of the event, or to do anything other than scoot closer to his warm bedmate and bury his nose in the curve of an Elven neck. The even rise and fall of Legolas’s chest lulled him to sleep.  
  
~*~  
  
“Only half of your egg made it into the bowl. The rest is dripping down the side.”  
  
Legolas gave Aragorn a glare that could freeze lava. “Thank you for stating the obvious. Honestly, if you’re just going to make fun of my cooking skills, then I have better things to do,” he sulked.  
  
“I thought Elves had an innate ability to cook.”  
  
“I thought Men preferred silence to idle chatter.”  
  
Aragorn grinned and added a cup of flour to the mix. “Apparently, we are wrong on both counts.”  
  
It hadn’t taken much persuasion by Legolas that morning to get Aragorn to stay in Gondor for an additional week. Given the vigorous activities of the previous night, he did not feel up to riding back for at least another two days…possibly three, depending on what activities Legolas had in mind for the upcoming evening. The fact that they were mixing the ingredients for another hummingbird cake led him to believe that said activities would be of an amorous nature, so an additional week seemed like a good idea.  
  
Truth be told, it would not take much for him to feel amorous right there in the kitchen, what with Legolas standing so close and looking so…well…pretty, though he dared not say that out loud. Aragorn indulged in a lazy visual inspection of Legolas’ pert backside. Yes, indeed, the Elf was pretty.  
  
“If you keep staring at his ass like that, you’ll stare a hole in it,” called Elladan as he burst in through the rear kitchen door. “Although, it does technically already have-”  
  
“What do you have in the bucket?” Aragorn interjected, eager to change the subject from that of Legolas’ bottom.  
  
Legolas picked up a large wooden spoon and gave the contents of the mixing bowl a few turns. “I’ll lay odds the bucket contains nuts of some sort.”  
  
“Too obvious,” replied Aragorn. “My guess is zucchini.”  
  
“And that’s not obvious?”  
  
“For Elbereth’s sake! Is that all you two ever think about?” Elladan cried with as much feigned indignation as he could muster. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute without some mischief arising. The bucket has eggplants in it, you perverts.”  
  
Aragorn chuckled and stole another look at Legolas. Unfortunately, the Elf caught him in the act.  
  
“Stop staring at my bottom and get to work. The cake won’t make itself, you know.” Legolas leaned in closer and added, “We can admire each other later.”  
  
Aragorn measured out a cup of sweet cream butter from a nearby tub. Tonight would take care of itself, and for now, he intended to simply enjoy spending time with Legolas. “Agreed. Today will be a great day.”  
  
Elladan reached into his bucket and retrieved an abnormally long eggplant, which he held aloft and gazed upon with a look of total admiration. “It certainly will be.”  
  
~*~  
  
The End

  
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